


Homecoming

by Thesis



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: M/M, angst ™, but it doesn't have to, implied suicidal ideation, implied weird mind links????, optimistic ending i promise, pidge and hunk are here and are important, shiro is super dead, the war is won and life kind of sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-25
Updated: 2016-07-25
Packaged: 2018-07-26 15:31:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7579516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thesis/pseuds/Thesis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two deaths and one funeral. Keith has trouble readjusting to Earth and Lance has trouble  dealing with Keith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Homecoming

It's hard to come home.  
  
Earth's gravity has always felt heavy to Keith. It weighs down his heart and feels thick in his lungs, but even he is glad to see the constellations he knows.  
  
Sometimes he remembers things. The heat of battle, the fierceness of his emotions running on high. Five minds linked through lions, merging and melding to move in unity. Just to live to see another day, just to bicker over bullshit and eat breakfast together in the morning. The bitterness of trying to have domestic moments so far, far away from home. The desperation for those moments, even as you hate them.  
  
It's hard to come back down to Earth from that.  
  
It's hard to come back to people who don't know life-or-death. It's hard to come back to how numb life without war is.  
  
It's hard to come back to an even-more-run-down-than-before shack in the middle of nowhere.  
  
It doesn't feel so isolated anymore, because when Keith thinks of the solitude he loves and wants, he thinks of drifting on the river between galaxies. Endless pitch black and pin-prick lights in any direction. Infinity in any direction, wormholes and warps just to get to a planet, let alone a civilization.  
  
It was cold and empty and sad, and it was _home_ to him. More than Earth.  
  
He had found everything out there.  
  
He doesn't want to stay here. Somewhere he had wandered without purpose when he was kicked out of the garrison. Hovering on the outskirts like maybe there was a mistake in his life and someone would realize he was meant to be back inside and guide him back to a path so that his life had meaning.  
  
It sort of had happened. The blue lion had called out to him, and the “higher purpose,” he had wanted was there. Only it had been farther and farther, then farther _still_ from the goddamn garrison.  
  
It's hard to come home, because this place was only ever a fall-back for the fact that he did not have a home to begin with.  
  
He isn't surprised that it's just as hard for the others, even if their reasons are different.  
  
It's hard for Pidge to settle back home with a mother who has grown so old and so lonely, yet cannot begin to comprehend what the rest of her family has been through.  
  
It's hard for Pidge to be _Katie_ , because she is meant for greatness. For taking things apart and putting them back together, “only better.” Meant for proving everyone wrong and figuring everyone out, years before they do. Practically predicting the future, and laughing that no one else could do the same.  
  
She isn't meant for doing laundry and washing dishes, and she isn't meant for talking her father down from panic attacks and waking her brother from nightmares.  
  
It's hard for Hunk, too. At first he had played diplomat with Allura, but the need for it had quickly dissipated in her aggressive competence, then with her departure.  
  
He can fix anything, and does – for cheap, or free, when he can afford it. He volunteers at a hundred places. From repair shops to soup kitchens to animal shelters. Always moving, always a new place, each time Keith hears from him. Nowhere is home after the extended displacement, and nothing makes him feel useful enough.  
  
Hunk helps a thousand people and it never really _matters_. It doesn't change their lives and doesn't change their hopeless circumstances, and the whole world is run on corrupt systems that he isn't in a position to do anything about.  
  
The problems of Earth are so small and so big. Hunk is too used to playing mediator, or even hero. But you can't save everyone, not like this, not from here.  
  
His family doesn't understand either, he says.  
  
Keith sits quiet and listens to a dozen of their conversations held at a vehement whisper, “they don't _get_ it,” “she just doesn't – she wants us all to go back to normal, but--” “--i know it's hard to believe, but it was _me_ , I did those things, _I_ was out there,” “I just wish she could be a little more compassionate instead of looking at me like I'm some kind of liar, or a stranger!” “I'm sorry.” “I'm sorry, too.”  
  
Keith never knows what to say, but they seem to appreciate his own distant, “sorry,” muttered in their silence.  
  
He doesn't hear from Lance. It hurts. It hurts more than he thought it would.  
  
He hates Lance. He always has. It used to be in a play-pretend rivals sort of way, genuine irritation just as real as genuine friendship.  
  
But then everything had ended, the final fight had come. They had watched ships burn around them, collapsing into each other. Keith thinks Lance would have still been laughing through he blood and bruises, even if they really had lost. The whole world had been bright, white-hot, too much and too terrible and still perfect because it was going to be over soon.  
  
He doesn't remember much past that. He had blacked out for the end, sickeningly sudden. He is even hazy on their return home.  
  
Then they had parted ways, and that was infuriating in itself, only no one had said as much – which was worse, because there was no way Keith was going to be the one.  
  
But they checked in with each other.  
  
Or, they were supposed to. Lance didn't.  
  
Keith isn't sure if he hates Lance for disappearing or if he hates himself for being so angry about it.  
  
Lance is probably ecstatic, he tells himself. He is finally home, and he was always the most vocal about wanting this. Not all of this, but – this. He can have all that bullshit he wanted so badly. Green grass and blue skies. His giant fucking family.  
  
Team Voltron had become a family of its own, but maybe real family trumps a play-pretend one. Keith wouldn't know.  
  
The only family he really had was Shiro, and--  
  
\--Lance calls him.  
  
He imagines the sound of the ringer rotting the walls. He imagines the banisters crumbling and the whole shack collapsing around him. It feels good not to answer. The sofa creaks impossibly loud when he dares to turns his head, watching his phone vibrate across the table.  
  
No. Fuck Lance. Fuck him for getting what he wanted and just disappearing.  
  
***  
  
He answers on the fifth consecutive call, when his phone finally vibrates off his table and into arm's reach on the floor. He figures that's as good a sign from God as any.  
  
It goes about as well as he had expected.  
  
“Look, I'm sorry,” Lance moans, with more irritation than remorse to his tone. “But I'm sure _everyone_ has been very busy since we came home! We kind of have a lot of catching up to do with our families, you know?”  
  
Keith is silent, less because the words are a sharp knife in his gut and more because he is too furious to think of an appropriately cruel retort. Both are true.  
  
After a moment, Lance seems to realize what he has said and stammers, “wait, shit, I mean – not you, obviously.” That doesn't help, and he knows it. He tries again, digging the hole deeper: “But I know everyone else has been just as distant, okay? You have to get that everyone has a lot on their plate and needs time to adjust.”  
  
“No, actually,” Keith says, so fast he nearly cuts him off. “We talk every week. Without you. Any other assumptions you want to make?”  
  
“Wha—every week? Seriously?”  
  
He wants to hang up.  
  
“--Don't,” Lance warns him, and neither of them question how he had known. “Look. I really am sorry.” There is an awkwardly long pause, while Keith waits for an explanation that Lance does not want to give, and Lance waits for forgiveness that Keith does not offer.  
  
Keith taps his foot against the metal arm-wrest of his sofa. The metallic ting is a satisfying way to fill the silence. He had wanted to hear Lance's voice so badly, but all this call is doing is making him want to stab someone. Preferably Lance, but the urge is strong enough that he isn't picky. He can hear Lance breathing. He wants it to be soothing so badly that it's nauseating.  
  
The silence stretches until finally Keith has to give in and prompt, “why did you call me?”  
  
He tries not to sound bitter. It doesn't really work.  
  
Lance hesitates so long that Keith almost prompts him again, but finally he blurts out, in a rush, “I was wondering if you could come visit me.”  
  
“Why?” Suspicion drips from his voice. Distrust in Lance is an unfamiliar, sour taste in his mouth.  
  
Lance sighs, the sound of it smooth and fluid over the airwaves. He can hear rustling, like he is running a hand through his hair. The image is clear in his mind, painted on the back of his eyelids as he shuts out this dark room.  
  
“I wanted you to come to a funeral.”  
  
Keith hangs up.  
  
It's so sudden that it takes him a moment to realize it was him who had ended the call, staring at his phone. His hands are clammy. He silently begs the phone not to ring, pleads for Lance to be a quitter just this once. He abandoned Keith so easily when they got home, he should be able to do it again.  
  
It rings, and Keith lets it, until finally it is silent, blinking its insistent voice-mail light like a beacon of his shame.  
  
***  
  
“A funeral?” Hunk repeats, his tone careful and tentative and no less painful than if it were not those things.  
  
Pidge asks, “whose?” as Hunk asks, “when?”  
  
Keith has listened to the voice-mail approximately eighty times. He doesn't know why Lance only called him, and feels vaguely guilty for it. He and Lance had their own, unique relationship; all intensity and cover-up for _you're special, you're the most important one—_ but Hunk and Pidge were his closest friends. Genuine friends who knew him and knew how to be there for him. He should have asked _them_ , not Keith.  
  
“In about two weeks,” Keith murmurs. The line goes quiet, white-noise static a newfound comfort between the three of them. “I might go.”  
  
There are no gasps, but the beat of silence is decidedly surprised. He tries not to feel their concern, pushing it from his mind.  
  
Hunk is gentle, “yeah?”  
  
“I think it would be good for you,” Pidge says, but does not sound so sure of herself.  
  
He wants to say, _I don't know if I can. I don't want to. Please don't make me._ Instead he says, “yeah. I don't know.”  
  
“You're a good person, Keith,” Hunk says.  
  
Keith falters, unprepared for the compliment. “Er... Thanks?”  
  
He doesn't get a chance to fumble through adding _you too,_ before Hunk continues. “I mean – whether you go or not. Either way. You're a good person. It's not wrong of you to not go, if you don't want to.”  
  
“Kind of a dick move on Lance's part,” Pidge mutters.  
  
Hunk hesitates, thinking through his words carefully. “Well. Yeah. Yeah, I'm not arguing, but I'm sure he has his reasons.”  
  
“He just ditched Keith,” Pidge snaps, “not to mention the rest of the team, like the second we got home. And then _he_ needs emotional support? Oh, poor him! Dick.”  
  
Hunk consoles her as best he can, murmuring her name like a lullaby, “Pidge.”  
  
It seems to work, and she quiets after one last snide comment under her breath.  
  
Keith hates the two of them getting so worked up for his sake. He hates that he's a person this is necessary for. Hates that he isn't all put-together and capable. He isn't a child, there's no reason other people should be fussing over him like he's delicate. But he _is_ , and he cannot decide whether his anger feeds on his guilt or the other way around. Either way it's a continuous circle of self-hatred. He wants to hate Lance instead.  
  
He agrees with Pidge. Fuck Lance. Fuck him for reaching out whenever it suits him, and fuck him for bailing on Keith when it mattered, the hypocritical asshole.  
  
And fuck Keith for caring so much. Fuck the burning intensity that insists they have a _bond_ and that he _needs_ to be there for Lance. Insists that whatever they share is so special and precious that it defies logic and reason.  
  
Pidge still sounds ready for an argument when she chimes in again. “I do think it'd be good for you to go, but I don't think Lance has thought it through that deeply. Hunk can probably whip up a dozen ways to think of this as an act of compassion, but that's giving too much credit to Lance. I think he's being selfish.”  
  
“Maybe,” Hunk agrees, to every level of the assessment. But he laughs, and Pidge has to concede a small chuckle, too.  
  
Laughing at Lance has always been a good pastime. It's disconcerting to do it with only half the usual affection. He's supposed to be the one that talks the most between all of them, an invisible thread holding them together beneath the more obvious leader's guidance.  
  
“I have to go,” Keith says abruptly, heart suddenly racing. “I'll talk to you later. And I'll yell at Lance until he talks to you, too.”  
  
There is a pleasant chime of good-byes, then silence.  
  
It's been too long for him to still be like this. Keith forces his breathing even. He stares at his ceiling and counts holes and cracks and makes lists in his head of what he needs to repair them, and reasons he doesn't care enough to do it.  
  
***  
  
A week later, Keith answers a call at four in the morning, half asleep and too bleary-eyed to even read the caller I.D. He recognizes the breathing on the other end and knows that it's Lance before he speaks.  
  
“I really am sorry,” Lance opens with.  
  
“Okay,” Keith says, because he is too exhausted to get as angry as he should be. The indignant spirals he usually works himself into are close enough to see, but they are spinning out of his reach.  
  
“It's not okay,” Lance insists, so loud that the phone cuts out for a moment. Keith grumbles and rolls onto his back, the metal frame of the sofa screeching in protest. His phone is warm against his cheek. Lance sighs. “Everyone was grieving, and I know that. I knew that.”  
  
“Did you,” Keith asks wearily, but it is not really a question, just a show of his disbelief.  
  
He went so long pining for the sound of Lance's voice, and now it fills his ears and his room. If he closes his eyes and tunes out the static, he can almost convince himself they are in the same room. Except for that his mind can feel the distance, pulling uncomfortably. He feels the same pull for Pidge and Hunk and Shiro. They are pack animals.  
  
Maybe that's why it's so devastating to pull and pull and get nothing. His chest feels hollow and he is dizzy. He needs to stop thinking about this. He wonders what Lance's surroundings look like.  
  
“I should have been around,” Lance mumbles. “But I wanted to – I ran away. It was escapism. That was how _I_ was grieving.”  
  
_That's not a good enough excuse,_ Keith's brain yells, and he hears a sharp intake of breath as if Lance had heard him.  
  
When Lance speaks again, it is a water-fall rush, like he is panicking that his explanation hadn't excused him, and thinks he can still talk it better. “But I got home and there was so much to do and everyone was so happy to see me and so busy, and there was so much to make _myself_ busy with. Like the funeral, because I know I said everyone was happy, but they were also sad too, because it happened so recently, so I kind of took over so they wouldn't have to worry about it. And while I was planning it, I was just seeing everyone mourning and seeing how they all dealt with it. And lately I've been seeing how much they need each other and support each other, and I tried not to think about it, but everyone keeps thanking me for being here for them, and they're here for me too, and I just kept thinking of...”  
  
He trails off, all his ramped up hysteria very suddenly dropping off.  
  
“Of?” Keith asks, as his head runs a mantra of _don't say his name, don't say his name,_ _don't say his name_ _._ _You shouldn't have asked._  
  
The room is quiet, and Lance says, tentative, “um... Of you. You know? And how hard it is to lose someone.”  
  
Keith laughs, and he knows it comes out cruel. He doesn't care. Lance is disgusting. “Well, good for you. Now that it's _your_ family, you want me around?” Lance takes a breath and begins to protest, but Keith cuts him off. “Don't pretend you're being noble. Pidge was right. You're just being selfish.”  
  
That's not a word he uses lightly, with Lance. They spent too much time together for him to fall for the stupid persona. Playboy, idiot, joker, careless. They weren't fake, but they weren't real either. Always making a fool of himself just to keep the team's minds light, to give them something laugh at. Smiling to cover up his own fear, and theirs along with it.  
  
He is sincere and he is not, but tonight, Keith does not feel like seeing the best in him. An unfamiliar hurt twists up with his own until it's just something ugly and foreign that's consuming his insides.  
  
_I wanted to talk to you,_ he tells his himself to stop thinking, with no success. _I wanted to talk to you so badly, and when you finally talk to me, it's miserable. You're making me fucking miserable, what is_ wrong _with you?  
  
_ Lance sounds pained. “Keith. Keith, stop.”  
  
“I don't want to talk to you right now,” Keith says. The lie is so apparent he wishes he had stayed quiet.  
  
“Okay,” Lance says. “That's – that's fair. It's late. Early.”  
  
Neither of them hangs up.  
  
It is literally over an hour of sitting in silence until finally Lance's breathing evens out into short puffs of air and intermittent snores, too-close to the microphone. Keith listens a little bit longer, then hangs up and goes back to sleep.  
  
***  
  
The funeral is on Saturday. Keith makes his way to Lance's house to get there by Friday, in the morning.  
  
The trip goes smoothly. He loves piloting the red lion, but the simplicity of a bike is nice. It's easy and mindless, and it isn't a constant battle just to make it listen to him. This means it lacks the satisfaction of success, but even so. He can just drift along through the scenery, which gets a hell of a lot better once he gets out of the desert.  
  
He stops at two hotels along they way, only when he can't keep his eyes open to drive. The beds are too soft and too big, and it's strange to hear the sounds of a city instead of nothing but distant air-crafts and bugs.  
  
He gets there before noon, which he supposes is good time for someone who went slower and slower the closer he got.  
  
Lance's family lives in a rural area, just on the outskirts of a moderately-sized town. Keith knows he has the right house even before he double checks the address on his phone. He's seen it before in holograms during bonding exercises, and even beyond that, it's impossible to miss.  
  
There are people spilling out in every direction, their body language all vaguely familiar, and music is playing in a language he doesn't know.  
  
Lance's older sister tries to greet him first, until Lance bursts out the front door to hurl himself into her, shoulder first, knocking her away from shaking Keith's hand. This sets the tone well enough for the day.  
  
Keith goes through all the introductions as best he can. It is overwhelming and loud and terrible. Lance's older sister, Jane and her husband Jonathan. Their children, Rosie and Justin. His mother, Laura, father, Cameron. Aunt Margaret, aunt Sophie, and uncle Antonio. Grandfather Jorge.  
  
They are all, despite the volume, lovely people. So lovely that he doesn't understand how Lance turned out to be such a train-wreck. (Another good sign: they laugh at this comment instead of getting offended on Lance's behalf.)  
  
Their kindness makes it impossible to refuse their hospitality, despite how much Keith wants to. He tries to insist on finding a hotel in town, but Jane is already shouting for Justin to grab spare blankets and Laura is standing to show him where they are while Margaret and Antonio try to guilt Lance into giving up his bed for the night.  
  
If this were a year earlier, he would have loved this. He is sure he would have found some fragment of what he's always been looking for, would have felt welcomed and cared for, would have been in awe of the way they all interact with each other.  
  
Too late.  
  
Keith tires quickly of playing nice with Lance for appearances. He is still resentful, all their conflict since they came back to Earth still unresolved, only recently dug up and left upturned, unattended.  
  
He sits, and he makes small talk, and he is treated kindly and he is kind in return for it.  
  
This isn't the family he wants and it isn't _his_ family, because his family is—was—  
  
– _Is this what families are like?_ Keith wants to ask, bewildered by their enthusiasm and shouting and arguing. He is already feeling a headache coming on. He wishes he could reach back through time and assure his younger self that he is not missing out on anything he wants.  
  
The sound drops off with the setting of the sun, thank God.  
  
By nightfall the house is eerily quiet. With the departure of everyone but Lance's parents and grandfather, everything is still. All the overlapping voices, music, and chores are gone. Keith still feels their presence, as if he could hear each person breathing, rooms away, if he listened closely.  
  
Lance's bedroom looks like it was in stasis while he was gone. Keith sees dust on the shelves. The room is small and surprisingly tidy, save for the unmade bed. The comforter on Lance's bed looks twenty years too old. It is green on one side, maroon on the other. He counts four tears, including one nearly a foot long that reveals the cotton inside. Probably a hand-me-down.  
  
He feels slightly more at ease here, finally able to breathe in the dimly lit room.  
  
Lance is amazingly quiet. He goes about setting up a futon on the floor for Keith, and nonsensically making his own bed as if he is not about to ruin it.  
  
Keith pictures deep conversations late into the night. He pictures being able to admit to his hurt in the sleepless vulnerability of moonlight, and maybe even accepting an apology that is too day-dream perfect to really come from Lance.  
  
It doesn't happen. They lay down in the dark, Lance on his bed and Keith on the floor beside him. Lance's hand drops over the edge and drifts about until his fingers knock into Keith's shoulder.  
  
That will have to do.  
  
Lance talks about his grandmother. He talks about what kind of a woman she was.  
  
He talks about the way she used to spoil him and his sister. Coming over and doing their chores for them. Taking them out for fast food, ice-cream, sodas, candies, and all the other treats his mother was so careful and strict on. Then dropping them off back home the moment they started to have their sugar-crash.  
  
He talks about the way she could sew anything, the way she was addicted to thrift shops. The way she had a bit of a gambling problem. The silly phrases she loved, the words she could never pronounce through her accent. The way other people treated her because of it.  
  
He talks about the family drama she stirred up, and the way she always played the victim. Her clock collection, the stories she used to tell him. The recipes she used to cook.  
  
Keith listens, just listens, in complete silence. The space between Lance's sentences gets longer and longer. The coherency of his stories fades.  
  
Keith can't sleep.  
  
He wants to cry.  
  
***  
  
The funeral is pretty and quiet, in a way that is hard for Keith to wrap his head around. He has only known them for two days now, but he knows that Lance's family is not 'pretty and quiet.'  
  
He never would have put that much faith in Lance as an event coordinator, but it goes smoothly. The venue is a wide-open, well-lit church, which feels vaguely uncomfortable to Keith, who has never been religious. In fact, he is fairly sure this is his first time in a church.  
  
There are white flowers at the edges of each pew, and the light that filters in through stained glass windows paints them different colors. Keith overhears at least a dozen comments on it.  
  
There are so many people filling the seats. Even more of their impossibly big family, plus friends. He has to go through what feels like a thousand more whispered introductions than the day before, but at least this time they are quieter.  
  
He doesn't understand how everyone can look so sincerely glad to see him here. He doesn't know them. He is here to mourn a woman he never met, which feels sacrilegious, or at the very least so blatantly insincere that it should be offensive. (“Jasmine,” Lance has to remind him, tactfully quiet.)  
  
At least twenty people step up to share their memories and kind words. Some cry, some make others cry. Keith is glad to be distanced from it all, but even his heart clenches empathetically. He finds his eyes darting to Lance beside him every so often. He does not cry. He does not step up to share any of the things he said last night.  
  
The reception is outside. It felt natural to see so many black suits and black dresses in the church, but in the patches of shade under summer-green leaves, and the vivid sunlight, it seems surreal.  
  
It's an uncomfortable sea of strangers, and Keith finds a spot in the shade of a willow tree to hover, far enough away to avoid socializing without being rude and leaving.  
  
Lance brings him a cup of water, then stands beside him to observe. Keith gets the impression that he is proud of his work. The leaves are like a curtain, separating them from everyone else, a false sense of privacy. There is a lot more laughter than he would have expected. Light murmurs of conversations in the distance, and children finding games to play, even here.  
  
He tries not to stare at the patchy light that plays in Lance's hair, on his cheeks, in his eyes. Keith's cheeks feel warm. He has to remind himself that he is still bitter.  
  
It's easy to do. His heart is acidic, and he sees Lance wince at the edge of his sight.  
  
Even so, Lance says, “thank you. For coming. You didn't have to.”  
  
“I shouldn't be here,” Keith points out, keeping his voice flat. “It was rude of you to invite me.”  
  
“How?”  
  
Keith arches an eyebrow. “You've had to remind me her name multiple times.”  
  
“You're my moral support,” Lance says, teasing.  
  
Keith kind of wants to throw his cup at him. Or maybe smile. He isn't sure which, so instead he takes in a shaky breath to compose himself.  
  
Quieter, Lance murmurs, “you should have come.”  
  
He doesn't mean Jasmine.  
  
Keith drops his cup and doesn't care that it spills. He is only distantly aware of Lance's startled yell behind him as he walks away in a hurry.  
  
Not fast enough. Lance catches him. He always does. This time by the wrist, yanking him back so hard that Keith stumbles, his back hitting the tree-trunk hard and painful.  
  
He glowers at Lance, blood boiling in an instant, and wrenches his arm away. His eyes scan the other guests to see if they are making a scene, but the foliage is hiding them enough that the two of them don't have anyone's attention. He wants to keep it that way. He keeps his voice low. “Let me go, Lance.”  
  
Lance's voice is urgent as he stands too-close to Keith without touching him. “I won't, not this time.” Keith can feel the shadow of it, childish and near incoherent in its desperation, _no, no, no, don't go.  
  
_ “Stop,” he groans, trying to force the flood out of his head.  
  
Lance presses, “why didn't you go to Shiro's funeral?”  
  
His skin prickles. His whole body feels hot, flushed with anger, and he doesn't want to punch Lance at his goddamn grandmother's funeral, so instead he just shoves him.  
  
“I'm worried--” Lance starts, stepping back.  
  
Keith cuts in, “--isn't it kind of messed up to try to make today about me? Or about _you_?” Keith does not feel so strongly about it, if he is honest. But maybe if Lance feels guilty enough, he will leave Keith alone.  
  
It seems to work. Lance falters, reaching out like he was going to touch Keith's arm, but stopping mid-way.  
  
“Isn't it kind of bullshit to talk big about being worried,” Keith continues, begging himself internally to stop, “when you're the one that bailed on everyone? To be with your _family_? Great, mourn how you need to, surrounded by support. The rest of us will just get by on our _own_ , I guess, thanks.”  
  
Lance just stares at him, stricken. _Good_ , Keith thinks vindictively. _Didn't need to hit him_.  
  
“Not that you have a clue what anyone is going through beyond that, since you were too busy with your 'escapism.' You can run and cry to your family and help them mourn, and get their support, but when it's your team, 'whatever, good luck?' You don't even know about anything, anything beyond—just that—Shiro—” he's getting flustered now in his constant avoidance of saying it or of thinking it in absolute terms.  
  
He can feel two distant pulls in his mind trying to draw him back, trying to stop the overflowing that he knows is enough to get to them, too.  
  
It's supposed to be three.  
  
He wants to hurt Lance. That's the only reason he bites out, “I'm sorry for your loss,” as he brushes by, knocking their shoulders.  
  
This time Lance lets him leave.  
  
***  
  
He avoids Lance's home until evening. It is tense and uncomfortable when he returns, because he knows he has been avoiding, but also knows he could just as easily go to a hotel, or even home.  
  
There is a certain comfort to the quiet, though. There are still stray family members over to visit, but even the children are having their conversations and laughter in hushed tones.  
  
It isn't melancholy, just peaceful, restful, maybe from the relief of all the planning and anticipation being over.  
  
Closure.  
  
Lance is in his bedroom, sitting at the edge of his bed and staring out the window at nothing in particular. He does not react when Keith lets himself in, but there is a slight tilt to his chin that gives his awareness away.  
  
Keith sits next to him.  
  
“I talked to Pidge and Hunk,” Lance says.  
  
_Good for you,_ Keith wants to tell him, wants the sarcasm to drip off his words and stain Lance's mood until it's ruined. He just says, “oh,” doing his best to sound indifferent.  
  
Frustration ebbs into Lance's voice, uncontrollable, and the tense of his shoulders makes Keith think he had thought he could keep it away. “I don't – I don't know how many times you want me to say I'm sorry. I should have been around! I get that! But I already missed so much back home, grandma died a week before we came back. One week! And I missed it.”  
  
“So,” Keith translates, forcefully draining his own compassion out of Lance's words. “Missing out on that made you decide you'd better bail on us too, just for good measure.”  
  
Lance laughs, broken and frustrated. “No, I just couldn't—didn't want to abandon them with all of it.” Keith doesn't get a chance to point out the cruelty in that, because Lance rushes, “I know, _I know_. I ditched you guys instead. And I'm sorry, I said I'm sorry.”  
  
Keith exhales. Maybe this can be over. He wants it to be over.  
  
Except then Lance blurts out, “but look, if I'm being honest, I don't see how you can get so upset that I ran away to my family, because at least I showed up for his funeral. At least I was there for something that important”  
  
Nope.  
  
“It's _not_ important!” Keith snaps, and stands up just to be moving, just so he doesn't hit Lance. That's an alarmingly frequent urge, and it's only getting harder to hold back. He used to hold back by thinking of how disappointed in him Shiro would be, because their fights were always petty to begin with. Not this time. Not this time. “Maybe it was important to you, but it isn't what mattered to me!”  
  
Lance stands up to yell back, and Keith takes a swing just so he doesn't have to hear it. The impact hardly makes a sound, and it hurts his own knuckles, maybe more than it hurt Lance, but it feels good. He should have done this a long time ago, and he knows the satisfaction reaches his face.  
  
Lance doesn't retaliate. He just takes it, then grabs at Keith's wrist again. Keith wants to laugh, incredulous. Why would you cling to someone like you want to stop them from leaving when they just hit you? Lance is an idiot.  
  
“Calm down,” Lance demands, and Keith is sure the walls are thin enough that they can be heard. He doesn't care. He doesn't care, because this isn't _his_ family. “I needed to get away from everyone so close to it all so that I could cope my own way, okay? And how can you get mad at that when you went off somewhere no one can follow?!”  
  
“What kind of an excuse is that?! You know it would work better if you hadn't run from one group to take care of another in the same exact situation!” Keith tries to yank his arm away, but Lance's grip is tighter. They're going to have matching bruises, he thinks, borderline hysteric. Lance on his cheek and Keith on his wrist.  
  
Lance grabs at his other wrist, holding them both in the air between them. Keith knows he should be stronger between the two of them, but still finds himself stumbling a step back as Lance steps toward him. “It was different!”  
  
He's overwhelmed and can't articulate the rush of arguments in his head. He tries to wrench free one more time and fails. It isn't true, but he doesn't care - Keith just growls, “I fucking hate you!”  
  
Lance knows better. The fact that he dismisses it is almost worse than if he had believed it. He takes another step towards Keith, using his long legs to get so close that his body pushes him back. Keith tries to put distance between them, but the backs of his knees knock into the edge of the bed, and the two of them topple backwards onto the mess of blankets.  
  
Lance _still_ doesn't let go, landing so that he catches his weight on Keith's wrists at either side of his head. It hurts. The weight, the impact, the way Lance's fingernails dig in. It hurts. Keith's mind latches on like an echo chamber, _it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.  
  
_ “Please stop,” Lance groans, drawing his legs up on either side of Keith, straddling him so that he can hold him down with his weight. “Just – calm down. Keith. Come on.”  
  
Keith turns his head to the side defiantly, just so that he does not have to stare up at Lance. His mind is still racing, but Lance isn't the only one telling him to calm down. If it weren't for Pidge and Hunk, Keith wouldn't even try.  
  
He breathes in, then out, slowly. _Patience yields focus,_ his mind tells him, almost nonsensically. Patience for what, focus on _what_? It doesn't matter. Shiro could always calm him down when no one else could.  
  
He hears Lance swallow, and looks at him sidelong. The way Lance hangs his head as he sighs brings him close, too close. The grip on his wrists loosens, but doesn't let go. He can feel Lance's body heat and weight.  
  
It suddenly feels very surreal to be home on Earth. To think of the world around him instead of so far away, to think of how little the future holds now that it is more than battle plans. He hears traffic out the window and worried whispers outside the room. He is acutely aware of his legs dangling off the bed at the knees. Of the soft blankets curled around his wrist, and the dip of the mattress under his weight, under Lance's knees at his sides.  
  
“We can't talk like this,” Lance says, head still bowed. “I can't talk to you if you just explode over everything.”  
  
That makes him want to lash out more. He forces it down. Somewhere, Hunk and Pidge are trying to sleep, and he knows being so volatile is ruining their night. He wants to tell Lance that it's his own fault for saying terrible things and not expecting a terrible reaction.  
  
But he tries, because he knows Shiro would want him to.  
  
“Funerals don't matter to me.” Keith says. It's true. He certainly thinks of it all with a level of avoidance, but ignoring the funeral was not made entirely out of that. He doesn't know how to say it, even to think it. He just hadn't wanted to go, and knew it wasn't going to be good, or bad, or anything, even if he had gone.  
  
“Okay,” Lance says, sounding unconvinced. Then, cautiously, “but then why did you come, today?”  
  
He answers like reflex, like he's being quizzed. “For you.”  
  
Lance winces. _Good_ , Keith thinks. _Feel guilty_.  
  
“Why did you go away?” Lance asks, weakly.  
  
Keith blinks. Genuine confusion crashes over him, and he turns his head to look straight up at Lance, prompting for the other boy to meet his eyes. Lance hesitates, then raises his head. He looks... Sulky. Like a pouting child. Of all the expressions he could wear, that is the one that makes it hardest to snap at him.  
  
“I didn't.”  
  
“I mean, everyone split up. We all just went back to be with our families, and I'm not trying to say I didn't bail out on the team, but. You didn't need to go back to being so far away, by yourself. I mean, you said... Or, I said? But you agreed.”  
  
The mattress creaks as Lance shifts his weight. Keith looks up at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation.  
  
Instead he just gets Lance mumbling, “you don't remember. That... That makes sense.”  
  
“ _What_ are you talking about?”  
  
“Nothing,” Lance lies, blatantly, pathetically, and has to avert his eyes. It's ridiculous to try to avoid someone you're pinning to a bed, Keith thinks.  
  
“Where else was I supposed to _go_?” Keith asks, exasperated.  
  
Lance leans forward and says, “with me. On the way home, you were so out of it, but I... Thought you meant it.” Lance's weight pushes his wrists harder into the bed, and Keith feels his pulse slamming up into Lance's palms. It suddenly isn't soothing anymore. The strange sort of security that came from being held down drops away and discomfort pools in Keith's gut. Lance's weight becomes a desperate plea for Keith to understand him. “I meant it.”  
  
Keith squirms, feeling suddenly trapped. Lance's grip is too pushy, too insistent. He hears himself make a wordless, irritated sound.  
  
Lance understands it, and guiltily lets go of Keith's wrists, sitting upright. He is still straddling him, but at least now Keith is able to bring his hands to his chest, rubbing at them. They are definitely going to be bruised.  
  
Lance mumbles an apology.  
  
***  
  
Keith remembers. He remembers a lot of things, all at once.  
  
He remembers the sound of breaking armor over the comm in his helmet. It was shattered easily by the black bayard sword. Shiro should have never brought it so close to Zarkon, not when either of them could use it.  
  
It wasn't even a move to turn the tides. Zarkon had lost. He was dying and he knew it. It was just spite, just revenge, using his last breath to take Shiro away from them. And Shiro had used his last breath to choke out, “it's okay. Keith, it's okay.”  
  
Keith still doesn't remember the rest of that day. What's lost to the black-out doesn't come back.  
  
But he remembers the trip home. Distantly, vaguely, like he had observed it from afar. He practically had. He had shut-down completely.  
  
He appreciates that no one had blamed him, but then again, maybe that was less out of consideration and more because they were dealing with the same loss, themselves and didn't have time for his break-down. He remembers quiet rooms of quiet teens reduced to feeling like helpless children, trying to sort themselves out, trying to talk through their plans.  
  
It should have been a celebration, for how many worlds and civilizations they had just freed and saved. Keith remembers hating people for putting one person over the universe. It was startling to know that he would have chosen Shiro without hesitation.  
  
He remembers a lot of crying. Hunk, who was always either wiping someone else's tears or his own. Pidge, phasing in and out of it, always thinking she could hold back until suddenly she was halfway through a sentence and choking tears back. Allura, who was either calm and collected or crying on the floor in the hallway, with very little in between. Coran, who kept it together for their sakes, but who had unmistakably red eyes, who turned away from them to hide his face so frequently.  
  
Keith hadn't cried. He should have. He knows this, because Lance had followed him around the castle at nearly all hours of the day, trying to harass him into speaking, or crying, or doing goddamn anything other than stare blankly.  
  
“We're – we're going home,” Lance had said, sitting on Keith's bed. Keith stood across the room, toying with his knife. He wished Lance weren't in the room. That would make this knife a lot more useful. “Don't you care?”  
  
Keith gave him a withering look, and if he had been capable of emotions, he thinks he might have enjoyed how nervous Lance looked. The way his eyes darted to the knife, then back to Keith's face uncomfortably.  
  
Keith turned his back on Lance.  
  
Lance's voice drifted from behind him, tentative. “Stay with me, okay?”  
  
Keith hadn't replied. Not the first time. Or the second, or third, or twentieth. But Lance was still stuck to him like glue, and he kept bringing it up, again and again. He doesn't even remember the transition. He doesn't remember the first time he found his voice, or the first time he agreed. They weren't momentous occasions.  
  
It had just felt natural. Eventually Lance's “stay with me, okay,” became a call and response, and Keith would reply, “okay,” and that was that.  
  
***  
  
But it hadn't happened.  
  
Keith stares up at Lance, and suddenly doesn't know where to rest his hands. He lets them fall onto his stomach, fingers lacing together. “Did you,” Keith says, cautiously, “run off from everyone because I didn't come home with you?”  
  
Lance shakes his head, looking like it's the first time the thought has occurred to him. Keith rolls his eyes. Lance is an idiot. He could have said yes and made Keith out to be the bad-guy in all of this mess.  
  
Keith sighs. “Get off of me.”  
  
Lance obeys, climbing down to lay beside him on the bed.  
  
It is dark in the room. Keith is finally used to the quiet, or what constitutes quiet when you live near civilization. He watches the way the dim starlight from the window draws vague impressions of Lance's face so close to his own.  
  
“I miss Shiro,” Lance whispers, like it's a secret he hasn't let himself tell anyone. Least of all, Keith.  
  
Keith tries to say _me too_ , but nothing comes out. When Lance's hand reaches out, fingers carefully brushing over his, he lets them. He lets Lance hook their index fingers, pulling tugging his arm down to rest at his side, and lets Lance hold his hand between them.  
  
“Stay with me, okay?” Keith recites.  
  
The laugh that bubbles out from Lance is startled and mixed in with a hiccup. “Yeah. Okay.”  
  
And then Keith talks. Slowly and evenly, almost analytically distant.  
  
He talks about meeting Shiro for the first time at the garrison. He talks about how quickly Shiro had taken a liking to him, seeming to seek him out over the presence of his own classmates, for reasons no one, even Keith, even Shiro, could explain.  
  
He talks about how they spent their time together, sometimes as equals, sometimes not. About the way Shiro would help him play hooky one day, but scold him for having attitude the next. He talks about Shiro before he left for his mission, and he talks about when the Kerberos mission was reported.  
  
He talks about their time in team voltron. Quiet moments, hidden from everyone else. Personal and familiar and nostalgic.  
  
And Shiro is dead. He repeats this a dozen times, when he runs out of stories and thoughts and anecdotes. It isn't the first time he has sat and ruminated on this thought. Only last time it turned out to be wrong. Last time he was alone.  
  
Lance sticks with him until they both fall asleep.  
  
He feels guilty. What right does he have to find even small fragments of happiness when Shiro is dead?  
  
_It's okay. Keith, it's okay._  
  
***  
  
“Have you cried?” Hunk asks, and gets away with it, because he's Hunk.  
  
Keith lays on his stomach, holding his phone out over the foot of the bed. Beside him, Lance bumps their shoulders together.  
  
“What? No,” Keith says, and kicks Lance in the ankles.  
  
“Ow!”  
  
“That's fine, you know. You can't push your ideas of proper mourning onto someone else,” Pidge says, strangely aggressive for how kind the sentiment is. Lance has the decency to look guilty.  
  
“It would be fine if you did cry,” Hunk offers, just to be polite.  
  
“Can we not talk about this? I'm fine.”  
  
“I'd say it's a testament to our emotional recovery,” Pidge offers, “that we're talking about it and laughing.”  
  
“I'm not laughing at anyone--” Hunk begins.  
  
Keith interrupts, “--I'd call it a testament to Lance's immaturity that he's trying to convince you guys I cry all the time.”  
  
“What?” Lance asks, feigning innocence. “No!”  
  
“I cried,” Hunk says, just as falsely somber. “About three weeks ago. On a Friday. I was trying to sleep and then got super emotional just out of nowhere.”  
  
Pidge snickers, the sound of it drowned out by Lance and Keith elbowing each other, equally red-faced.  
  
“--So,” she eventually says, coming to Keith's rescue. “Any plans on heading home?”  
  
Keith shrugs, and pointedly stares at the black screen of his phone. “Not yet. But this isn't a bad pit-stop.” He can see Lance perk up, can see him grinning at the corner of his sight. He refuses to look at him.  
  
“Uh-huh,” Pidge says, unconvinced and all-knowing.  
  
“It's, uh,” Keith forces himself to say, no matter how uncomfortable. “You know. Everyone is nice. They're not my family, but. They're nice.”  
  
Shiro is his family. But he doesn't take for granted the open arms that have welcomed him, and he can't deny how much easier it has gotten to be surrounded by their sounds and chatter and music.  
  
The nuance is lost on Lance, who is absolutely _beaming_. “Aww, you love me!”  
  
Keith kicks him in the ankle again. “I appreciate your family,” he corrects.  
  
Lance retaliates, kicking back, trying to pin Keith's leg to the bed with his own. It leads to an all-out wrestling match. Keith hardly hears Hunk telling them, “play nice, kids,” from where his phone has clattered to the floor.  
  
“I was going to ask about the house-hunt,” Pidge comments, distantly. “But I get the feeling it's not a top priority.”  
  
Lance has Keith pinned, sitting high on his chest with his knees locking Keith's arms to his side, and yells, “I'm working on it! It has to be perfect!”  
  
Hunk runs down the list again, “what was it all? By the beach, not too far from your family? A little isolated, if possible, convenient grocery store distance? Three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one story, big yard?”  
  
“It's not gonna happen,” Keith says, too quiet for the phone to pick up. Lance huffs down at him.  
  
“Excuse you?”  
  
Pidge seems to be on the same train of thought anyway. “How're you expecting to find somewhere isolated but close to groceries? You gotta pick one or the other.”  
  
“Listen,” Lance calls out, in the general direction of the phone, before promptly getting distracted. Keith is starting to struggle again, arching his hips up off the bed to nudge Lance in the back with his knees. “Man you are too flexible, what the hell?”  
  
“Er?” Pidge asks.  
  
“I mean,” Lance amends, “once I find the place, you're going to come visit, and you're going to be so amazed and so embarrassed that you were so wrong—ow!”  
  
***  
  
He's sort of right.  
  
Keith doesn't care about the house. He never really did. But it makes Lance happy, and that makes him happy. Being close to the beach is alright, he supposes, and he likes how big the living room is. But most importantly, after far, far too long at Lance's family's home, he finally gets quiet.  
  
The distant sounds of Lance giving Hunk and Pidge the grand tour is soothing. They are too much a part of him for him to want their silence.  
  
Lance probably should have waited a little longer than _literally the day they moved in_ to have them over, but Keith knows they were all impatient to see each other.  
  
First time in a long time. The phone calls help.  
  
Lance is a natural, picking up like they never parted ways. Keith feels like he is working up to it, quietly unpacking things in his bedroom, but he knows none of them will think poorly of this.  
  
He doesn't have very many belongings to begin with. Books, mostly, and so few clothes that Lance is in perpetual horror over it. He slides his books onto the shelf one by one, in no particular order. Garrison assigned reading, survival guides.  
  
A sci-fi novel that Shiro had given him for his birthday one year. It wasn't even good.  
  
Keith stares at it. There is a handwritten note on the inside of the cover. It is nothing amazing. Just a happy birthday message, and the date. Shiro's signature.  
  
Such small things. Shiro smiling at him behind someone's back, the silent understandings between them, having that faith in him when no one else knew if he deserved it or not Not the momentous, heroic moments of rescue. Those would be gone anyway, anyway. But things like 'happy birthday,' and things like talking on the phone with the rest of them. Those are gone now.  
  
This time they aren't coming back.  
  
When Lance opens the door, he stops whatever he had been saying mid-sentence. Keith is still holding the book, crying. He stares at them like a deer caught in headlights, but it's too late.  
  
The most sound Keith lets out is an awkward laugh that cracks half-way through, as he is scooped up in a big hug. Hunk first, comfortingly surrounding him in strong, warm arms, then Pidge, throwing her whole body into him and holding tight.  
  
Lance eases the book from his hands and slides it onto the shelf before finding a place in the hug, practically nudging his way under Hunk's arm.  
  
They don't talk. The four of them just stay in their strange, four-person embrace, until Keith's shoulders stop shaking. Then a moment longer.  
  
It's such a waste if he doesn't do everything he can to be happy. This is how Keith wants to think.  
  
Pidge holds Keith's hand and guides him to the bathroom so he can wash his face, and Hunk and Lance head out to go grab a take-out dinner for everyone.  
  
They eat from boxes, sitting in the middle of the living room floor. It's – nice. His butt hurts and Lance keeps spilling on the hardwood, and his eyes still feel sore at the corners. But it's nice.  
  
“Alright,” Keith says flatly, fighting off his own embarrassment, “I've officially cried. Can put a check mark on that one.”  
  
Hunk and Pidge clap sarcastically, then exchange an amused look and snicker. He's glad they understand the tone he is going for. Comedy was never his strong point.  
  
Lance looks uncomfortable.  
  
“What's next on the list?” Hunk asks.  
  
“Of Keith things?” Pidge tries to clarify. “Or of mourning?”  
  
“I think furniture,” Lance mumbles, shifting in place for the millionth time. “Furniture is next on the list of Keith things.”  
  
Keith nods. “That too.”  
  
Lance opens his mouth to ask, but Pidge interrupts, motioning between herself and Hunk with her plastic fork. “We should get a house.”  
  
“Yeah?” Hunk looks thoughtful. Keith can feel the determination swelling up inside from both of them, even as the two of them pretend that it is just a casual idea. Keith knows it's going to be hard for them. It's easier to leave family behind when you're only going as far as a city's width away, but Pidge has responsibilities at her home, and Hunk's problems aren't going to vanish no matter where he goes. But it's too late, now that the idea is out there.  
  
He hopes they move close- by.  
  
Lance catches his eye and grins.  
  
“So what was, uh,” Lance says, “what was the other thing? On your list.”  
  
Keith feels his cheeks heating. He feels strangely shy, and having just cried in front of Lance an hour ago only makes it worse. “Something I should have taken care of a long time ago.”  
  
“Oh God,” Pidge gags, at the same time as Hunk coos, “aww.”  
  
“Yeah?” Lance asks, ignoring them completely. His cheeks are dusted red, and he tries to distract himself with his food.  
  
“Haven't you two been sharing a bed for like three months,” Pidge asks. “Why are you even playing with that separate bedroom junk, anyway? Why are you _just now starting to flirt_?”  
  
“Platonically,” Lance interjects, ignoring the rest, “platonically sharing a bed! I have a big bed!”  
  
“Sure,” Hunk says, unconvinced.  
  
“You're going to platonically buy a house,” Keith points out. “That's even weirder.”  
  
But it isn't weird. It feels good, that fluttering comfort that spreads so thoroughly between the four of them that Keith does not feel the absence of one.  
  
***  
  
They ride in the taxi with Hunk and Pidge, back to their hotel. Had there been more furniture in the house beyond a bookshelf and Lance's bed, Keith would have had them stay the night. The ride is noisy, their energy seeming to peak with the desperation for their time together to continue. They are loud and obnoxious and clingy, minds and emotions mixing together to amplify uncontrollably.  
  
Keith tips the driver well for putting up with them.  
  
Then they come home. The word still feels unfamiliar. Home. _Home_. It is practically silent. The sounds of traffic are rare, distant, and if he closes his eyes he can hear the ocean. Home.  
  
Lance, who had been the majority of the shouting in the cab, is quiet. He takes Keith's hand, slowly intertwining their fingers.  
  
“The stars are kind of dull,” Keith says.  
  
“City lights.” Lance responds. “Can't really avoid it.”  
  
He knows it's strange to stand outside their house so long after the cab has driven away. Lance doesn't rush him. Eventually Keith asks, “what do you think Shiro would think?”  
  
_You would know that better than me_ , Lance thinks. Maybe not in those exact words, but the sentiment is there, vivid in his heart, and Keith appreciates it. He appreciates even more that he gets an actual answer instead.  
  
“I think he'd be glad. That you're somewhere better than a shitty old shack in the desert. And that you're never alone. That we all stick together. That you're thinking of him. That you miss him. And that you're doing alright without him.”  
  
“Sappy,” Keith mutters, blinking rapidly.  
  
“What, um,” Lance mumbles, sounding almost guilty. “What do you think he'd think? Of me?”  
  
Keith squeezes Lance's hand. He's not the only one who misses Shiro.  
  
“That you've been very mature,” Keith says. Then amends, thinking of all their play-wrestling and ridiculous bickering, “maybe. But... I think he'd be glad that you still make everyone laugh. He'd be relieved that you got back to your family safe and sound. That's what he wanted for all of us. And he'd be proud of you for helping them.”  
  
“I didn't do a very good job taking care of everyone else,” Lance says.  
  
He can't argue, but at last he can forgive. “No one could be expected to.”  
  
Ocean waves and far-away starlight and home. Keith thinks this is the perfect backdrop for their first kiss.  
  
Lance kisses him first. He closes the distance between them, and presses their lips together, soft and careful.  
  
Then immediately jerks back, muttering a startled, “oh God,” at the doubled flurry of _finally, finally, finally_ , that shoots through both their veins. Keith tucks his head as if he could hide his snickering. He would be more embarrassed if it were just him, but he knows that it isn't.  
  
Keith kisses him next, and the echoes of contentment are only barely quieter. It is warm and perfect. To tilt his head just so, to guide Lance's mouth open with the careful part of his own lips, feels easy.  
  
When they part, it is only barely. Keith can feel Lance's lips moving, still touching his own. “Stay with me, okay?”  
  
“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanna be okay.


End file.
